


my ribcage as a pillow

by aosc



Series: The Lilac Hour [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Pre-Canon, Soulmates - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 07:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: Noct holds, wordlessly, out his wrist. In the warm light of the overhead lamp, Prompto sees it clearly: a constrictedPin black stands starch out against the pale of his skin.





	my ribcage as a pillow

**Author's Note:**

> all aboard the trash train. aka this soulmate AU in which the soulmate lore-part has no basis. it just is. because i’m. really sappy. title is from the japanese house’s sugar pill. this entire piece can be read to any of the more sappy one direction songs. bc that’s how it was conceived, and i apologize for nothing.

* * *

  
The etymology of the soul mate phenomena is - hazy, at best. At least his.

 

Prompto, like most other people, can’t recall childhood memories that have distinct shapes, in which linear events happen, or which become more than fuzzy-formed blots and feelings without a basis or origin. They just are. Black, mottled bruise-colored memories of bodily pain. Bright pangs of fear, starchily and uncomfortable. Bright red and intense, warning. Green, sepia tinted recollections of waiting. Waiting in line. Waiting for the fuzzy-edged memory which turns out to be a doctor. A customs officer. A woman, a psychologist.

 

Soothing, peach-sleepy figures of his parents, right before Prompto falls asleep. The washed out eggshell of the walls in the room he’s been put in. He’s scarcely three years here; he probably remembers a lot of this due to his parents’ retelling of the story of how they ended up bundling up an immigrating toddler and stewing him, along with his mother, in the backseat of their old Corolla, and driving home with him. Home. He thinks of it in hushed cadences, safe and lukewarm and softly gold-hued.

 

Thus, it’s impossible for him to remember, the exact moment in which he figured he wouldn’t ever get a soulmate. In which instance of his memories of the purple lilac black flashes someone told him – the markings on your wrist is a manufacturer’s barcode. You are manufactured. You are cultivated. Grown forth. Mass produced.

 

NH-01987 is not his name. Once, it was his designation. A manufactured item is branded, categorized. It isn’t named.

 

NH-01987 is not his name. His name is Prompto Argentum. His parents make sure to tell him that. Often. It’s not that - it’s not that he never feels loved. He does. He loves his parents endlessly, rightly, back.

 

But they’ve never talked about the soul mate phenomenon. About the fact that in the crook of his mother’s left elbow, is a tiny, scripted lettering. In the same spot, on the right arm, is a tiny, scripted lettering, on his father.

 

Prompto picks at the smooth, slightly elevated skin of his tattoo, branded hotly onto his skin, and wonders at how it is that he’s a person, but at the same time - he’s not.

 

*

 

“Prom,” says his mother, gently, and picks at a strand of hair that’s tangled in his eyelashes. Prompto blinks against the needling light that waking and opening his eyes means. He peers, half blind, up at her shape, distorted and wobbly. “Yeah?” he mutters.

 

“Remember the dig site I told you about a few weeks back, in Duscae?”

 

Prompto scrubs at his eyes, and scoots further up in his bed. His legs are tangled in the sheets, late summer warmth making even early mornings heavy and hot. He nods, “Sure. You going out there?”

 

Bea Argentum nods. Her face is gently sloping in a smile. “It’s only a quarter to six, so you can go back to sleep. We just wanted to say goodbye. It’s close to the meteor’s impact site, so it’ll take us a while to get there. I’ll call and let you know once we’ve made it.”

 

“Okay,” says Prompto, “Travel safe. And snap a few pictures, yeah? The meteor looks _really_ cool in pictures.”

 

His mother chuckles. “I’ll try. Your father’s probably better for that than I am, you know how it typically goes,” she inclines her head towards the far end of Prompto’s bedroom, the door ajar and showcasing the empty hallway, “The fridge is stocked, and I’ve left some money in an envelope on the mantelpiece. Call either of us if anything happens, okay?”

 

Prompto nods. “Promise. And you too - if you dig up some pre-historic bones. Maybe you’ll hit one of Titan’s toes, or something. He _is_ supposed to be down there, isn’t he?”

 

Bea raises an eyebrow, a teasing tilt to it. “Maybe so,” she says, “The world is strange, and full of wonders. Full of things to _photograph_.”

 

Prompto laughs. He throws one of the smaller pillows on his bed after his mother, who efficiently steps out of the way, used to the cadence and the routine of it. “Love you,” says Bea, as she steps through his door. Prompto waves a hand in reply, “Love you too,” he says, “And dad.”

 

Prompto’s a light sleeper, and once he’s awake, he’s not well versed in sinking right back into it. He lays back in his bed for a while, listens to the rumble of their old, dingy Corolla starting up. Its tiny engine roaring and coughing to a start, his dad unnecessarily revving it up, the way mom dislikes, and jump starts it on second gear out through the driveway. Once its made its way down the tree-lined avenue of Yun Drive, and diverted out onto the main road, Prompto shutters his eyes to the noise of a nest of birds tweeting, to the rustle of the tree crowns in their backyard swaying to the breeze. He imagines the scene: the cherry trees popping with fruit, its blossoms singling down onto the ground. The grass, ripe and green and uncut, the filter of sunlight through the branches. Picture perfect.

 

He dozes until six forty five, beating out a few parties on King’s Knight until his alarm goes off.

 

He goes for a run - just a light one, his short round - in the pale morning sunlight. The early workers in construction, and government sectors, and its like, are already out. Suits, and breezy floral dresses, and the occasional stroller, pass him as he rounds the looming apartment complex on the utmost tip of his rut, and turns back.

 

He steps gingerly out of his workout gear - a ratty old tank top, reminiscent of his days as 40 lbs heavier, and a pair of drawstring shorts - and peels off his socks. He kicks his trainers unceremoniously out the back door, but changes his mind, and leans them precariously onto the railing instead, to dry in the warm weather. Well done, he hops into the shower. He rinses slowly, shampoos his hair and even clicks a dollop of conditioner out from a sleek, labelled bottle on the far end of the tub. It smells strongly of jasmine and sweet herbs, but what the hell - Prompto can rock it.

 

The good part about dressing for school is that he doesn’t have to pick and choose anything to wear. Doesn’t have to think about how it fits across his back, or tapers to his waist, or the length of the leg, seeing as he’s just slightly on the short side of the regular seaming. It’s just his school uniform, which hangs off of his shoulders, slightly too large, with the leg bunching slightly at his ankle (but in a nice way), and if loosened, the tie exposes a bit of his throat.

 

Prompto’s not _vain_ \- he’s just - needs to look good, with the prerequisites he’s been given. He’s not pre-destined to end up with someone, so he has to take care to look his best.

 

Lastly, slicking his fringe properly, and washing his hands from the excessive wax, he fumbles around the basin for his wristband. It’s in leather, and a hell of a lot better than the striped sweatband he’d worn as a kid. He takes care to buckle it properly, and twists it until it’s proper over the area where it’s to sit. The lines etched in his skin flicker, and disappear, beneath the leather.

 

He looks up, sees himself in the mirror. Nods, without really meaning to, to himself. Another day to make the most of, he decides.

 

*

 

The day he properly introduces himself to Noct, he’d been almost shaking with nausea, and had to steel himself to not give in to the rattling of his mood to traverse down and into his knees. He’d tightened and loosened his tie a billion times, and walked around campus aimlessly between periods. When he spotted Noct from afar, out in the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to the swatches of giggling girls and muttering guys, though - Prompto saw his chance.

 

Noct’s hair, unruly as ever, stood a little on end as he tilted his head. His mouth was shaping into something slightly amused. “Don’t I know you?” he said, but the comment was more rhetorical than genuinely questioning. Prompto bit his lip, and forced out a weak laugh.

 

Noct inclined his head. “C’mon,” he said.

 

They stick close to each other after that. The Prince, Prompto learns, doesn’t really socialize. He’s funny, though, so Prompto wonders why - _besides_ being good looking to the point where Prompto’s beginning to question his own sanity. The ridiculous depth of blue in his eyes, the regally chalked out cheekbones, the way he holds himself - unconsciously knowing that he’s important, that he commands a certain level of attention. _Astrals_ , Prompto thinks, on not just one occasion.

 

He also has a soul mark.

 

It’s not particularly visible - not beneath his uniform, anyway, and, mostly, while out of it, Noct dresses in long sleeves. “It’s just a preference,” he explains, and shrugs, a little, but Prompto knows a little something about what’s preference and what’s not. Preferentially, he’d like to scrap the wristband. But then there’s the needling, churning feeling of wrongness, palpable in his gut, whenever he thinks of it - and sees, the black tattoo, and so he decides that _preferences_ can go screw themselves. Royally.

 

At times, though, Noct picks at his sleeves, or rolls them up to mid-forearm, when they’re seated at the cherry wood counter in the kitchen at his apartment, doling it out over Statistics homework. Prompto sees it, an almost regal carving of a letter. Just the single one. A _P_ , or an _R_ , or a _B_ \- he can’t really decide on one. He hasn’t seen it up close. More snatches of it, that Noct always hides, as soon as he remembers himself. Prompto doesn’t pry; it’s a private affair. He gets it. He’s also _the_ _Prince_ , and _that -_ the soul mark _, is,_ if anything, widely discussed when it comes to him. Prompto’s not very certain that the same principle that had his parents getting together will ever apply to Noct. So he gets it, he doesn’t want to discuss it.

 

Prompto, privately at night, sometimes, when he’s being particularly horrible for just a second, feels soothed by the thought. They’re not alike; Noct’s a person, after all. He’s got a soul mark, which means that someone is destined for him. But he won’t be able to search for them. Most definitely won’t be able to get together with them. He’s the next in line for the throne, and not everyone gets to be a princess, after all.

 

He immediately perishes the thought, whenever it occurs, of course. He feels terrible about it. But sometimes, the feeling that precedes that is one of serenity.

 

*

 

“Iggy,” says Prompto, from his spot on the floor, “Can I ask you something?”

 

Ignis hums. “You are always able to _ask_ , Prompto. Just don’t always expect an answer.”

 

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, sure. What do you know about soul mates?” He discards the printed, stapled bunch of papers he’s proof reading for his advanced Lucian language class. He – doesn’t like to be mean, but this particular classmate, whose name he does not know, is _garbage_ at spelling. Even with a mint pair of contacts in, his brain’s striking out on him, two pages in.

 

“Define _know_ , would you,” says Ignis in reply, “It’s a very indistinct line of questioning.”

 

Prompto grimaces. “You know what I _mean_ ,” he whines, “Tell me about it. My folks aren’t – really into that stuff. I’m just curious.”

 

Ignis pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. He looks down at Prompto. “Very well,” he replies, a trace of self-sacrifice in his tone, “I suppose indulging you on this particular matter isn’t to harm.”

 

Prompto rocks his way up to sitting. “You’re so noble,” he says.

 

“Indeed, I am,” replies Ignis.

 

He puts his crossword down, lays his pen neatly to the side, and twists in his chair, to Prompto. “The etymology of the soul mate phenomena dates back to the days of the ancient civilizations. Back when the Astrals were not yet the deities we’ve come to know them as in our modern age. The soul mark is commonly known as the mark of Brunhilde, an ancient Goddess worshipped by the people of the civilization of Solheim. As I said, back then, the Astrals were not the deities they are today. As the story goes, Brunhilde, a shield maiden of the old Gods of Valhalla, were to decide the favor between two kings who were supposed to meet in battle, one of whom was already pre-destined to win the battle. She chose the unblessed king, and for this, she was banished to Eos, doomed to a mortal life. The god who cast her out of Valhalla imprisoned her in a towering castle, far up in the mountains to the North, and trapped her in a ring of fire in its very highest tower. A ring of fire that could not be extinguished by any man. Bar for one – the man predestined to love her. He was the lord of a faraway kingdom, who had never ventured as far as Solheim before. When he eventually arrived, in the harsh of winter, he did not easily find his way to the castle. He trekked far and wide, over hot plains and through snowy gorges. Through deep, treacherous swamps, and up tall mountains. He had many a perilous encounter with a land untamed that he did not know, and overcame great trials to rescue the shield maiden from her entrapment. Long was the journey, and difficult, but eventually, they would make it. The shield maiden told the lord of her fate, but he cared not. They escaped the castle, and set quick sails for his home land, far away from Solheim. They went on to marry, and to live out the remainder of their days so as was their destiny – in love.”

 

Ignis pauses. He tilts his head in Prompto’s direction. “Are you still following me?”

 

Prompto almost startles. He’d sunk into the soothing cadence of Ignis’ voice, tuned the rest of the world – and his thoughts, out. He nods. “Sure am. You’re a good story teller, you know.”

 

“Why, thank you,” says Ignis.

 

“But then – Brunhilde was a Goddess, right? That’s why that phony Soul Matcher app markets it as the _divine_ trademark of love?”

 

“Well, I’m hazy on the particulars, I must admit, but if she weren’t, at the time of the story, she certainly became one whom the masses would worship later on.”

 

Prompto nods slowly. He hums. “So – there are those who never receive their mark, right?”

 

Ignis nods. “It isn’t uncommon that one’s pre-destined dies before you get a chance to meet. Hence, the mark may fade. Or it may never appear at all.” He peers at Prompto, “Is there something particular on your mind, Prompto?”

 

Prompto flushes. He scrabbles backwards over the floor, slightly. “Um,” he says, “No? I mean – nothing in particular. Just – just curious. Is all.”

 

“Mm,” says Ignis, clearly not convinced, but also not one who pries unnecessarily, where he is not wanted. “Well, that should tidy you over. Unless you would like me to go into particulars, pertaining to the sociological and economical aspects of what capitalism, and our modern age of technology, has done to the soul mark.”

 

Prompto raises an eyebrow. “Dude,” he exclaims, “Is there anything you _couldn’t_ give a university lecture on?”

 

Ignis’ smile is light. “Probably on the reasoning of a perfectly healthy adolescent, who’d rather hear about soul marks and pre-historic mating rituals, than study for his upcoming finals.”

 

Prompto flops down onto the floor again. “It’s the reasoning of the perfectly healthy and adolescent to _not_ want to study for finals,” he groans, “You can talk about – socio-economical debt, or pre-historic love rituals, or whatever, and it’d still be more interesting than Advanced Lucian III.”

 

Ignis snorts. “Well,” he says, “Studying certainly isn’t for everyone. Noct should be back any minute, though, not to worry. The day is young: a few hours of mind numbing video gaming awaits you yet.”

 

Prompto waves a fist a little haplessly in the air. “I can’t wait until VR is the new reality,” he says.

 

*

 

Noct drags him into a secluded corner of campus, away from a hoard of admirers who sweep past. He frowns, a little pale from the beckon of unwanted social interaction. Prompto grips Noct’s wrist in turn, almost like a promise, and tingles a little with the contact.

 

“This feels like a movie,” he whispers loudly, mostly to disperse of the tense air.

 

Noct snorts. His shoulders remain knotted; his Adam’s apple still bobs in stress. “Yeah, kinda. Like a _horrible_ movie.”

 

Noct’s usual slouch makes him appear smaller than he really is, but when he’s like this, erect and tall, he’s a little taller than Prompto. Now, when they’re almost pressed together against the warm brick wall, it makes Prompto’s gut twist, tangle in itself. He breathes into the space just above Noct’s shoulder.

 

Noct eventually moves away, seems to have noticed nothing of Prompto’s internal struggle (which, really). He shakes his head slightly towards the mouth of the campus gates, vying for the main street, a little farther away. “Wanna ditch?”

 

Prompto thinks for a second. “Don’t you have Microeconomics in, like, fifteen?”

 

Noct shrugs. He offers no comment pertaining to his schedule, so Prompto thinks, his belly still a little tight, the nerves in his fingers, traversing his wrist, down up into the nerve connections, still tingle. “Yeah, alright,” he says.

 

They hit the arcade. The downtown, spacious one, which is called the Game Jewel, is relatively void of people at this hour. A few kids, along with a slew of parents and/or siblings, have hogged the air hockey consoles. A few college kids that Prompto recognizes, given that him and Noct do spend some time here each week, are mic’d in to the rally seats.

 

Noct allows Prompto to choose. So of course, much to his buddy’s grumblings, he chooses one of the zombie survival ones, with the remote plastic gun. It’s a hideous green, and the trigger is soiled with kids’ nasty, gummy fingers, so it pushes off slowly. Prompto loves it. Noct thinks it’s awful, but Prompto figures it’s because Noct’s kind of a lousy shot. They could’ve multi-playered it, but the co-machine’s out of service, so they have to take turns.

 

“Y’know,” says Noct, once he’s died just two thirty into the round, and hands the gun off to Prompto again, “This is kind of lame.”

 

“Hah,” exclaims Prompto, “It’s just ‘cause you’re a sucky gunman, dude.”

 

“Is not,” replies Noct. He crosses his arms resolutely over his chest, “The trigger’s slow, and sticks, and you can’t change the difficulty settings because that’s also stuck.”

 

“You’re saying you want _Easy Mode_ , buddy?” Prompto smirks, “You want to hit something easier? Something +7?”

 

Noct laughs. “Screw you,” he says, “I’m just saying, Knights of Eos is totally more awesome than this.”

 

Prompto fires of a round, splaying cross road over the incoming hoard of zombies. “Nah,” he says, as he advances, “Knights of Eos blows. You can’t switch weapons until you’ve leveled, like, thirty times. You’re stuck with that clunky sword, and you can’t even combo-kill.” He triggers twice, reloads, and fires again, hitting thrice in headshots, and prompting a gold star to start up, blinking in the upper left corner. “Not like this.”

 

Noct snorts. “You totally can combo-drop on KoE. _You_ just can’t handle the mechanics of the Giant Cleaver.”

 

“Uh huh,” says Prompto. He fires off another salve, “That name _really_ says it all.”

 

They keep at it until Noct forces him to leave Survivor II: Horrors of Cleigne, behind, and drags Prompto along to the Knights of Eos machine. It is, unfortunately, occupied already. They hang back for a while, Noct gets them a soda to split, but when it becomes clear that they’re not first in line, not even tenth in line, probably, they tire.

 

“Eh,” says Noct. He stretches, “Want to head home? Or – back to my place? Specs is cooking dinner.”

 

This time, Prompto doesn’t need to think twice, or hesitate, before he says yes.

 

*

 

He isn’t prone to asking his parents a lot about the way they met each other, or how they knew it were them, pre-destined for each other. He’d just spotted their marks, while very young, and it’d gone without saying that the B, in the thin skin of his dad’s elbow, is for his mom. And that the S, in the crook of his mother’s elbow, is for dad.

 

His dad is at the office, working late, studying field samples of soil collected in a Duscaean cave digging. His mom had made dinner, and has put two plates for the two of them out on the patio. The evening is warm, pre-summer weather making the sun remain standing high on the sky.

 

They’re relatively quiet for the duration of the meal. Bea asks Prompto about his day. He shrugs; nothing new. Noct’s not been to school for three days. Princely stuff, he’d sardonically said when they’d spoken on the phone yesterday, only briefly, between – whatever it was he’d been doing. Prompto’s just been - hanging around, minding his own business.

 

He isn’t really sure, in hindsight, what prompts him to ask.

 

“How’d you and dad – you know, know it was you?”

 

Bea swallows her mouthful of fish and rice. She puts her fork down to scrape on the porcelain of her plate. She looks thoughtful, before she replies. “It’s – difficult to put into words,” she says. She looks up at Prompto, smiling with all the gentleness of a mother who’s attempting to explain something otherworldly to her young, inexperienced child, “It’s different for everyone. Some react by touch, some – just know. To some, it comes instantly, upon meeting. For some, it comes gradually. I couldn’t tell you what’ll happen to you.”

 

Prompto – has long learned to discard the hollow dropping out of his stomach, whenever someone mentions soul mates in relation to him. Not even his parents know that he’s – not like them. That he’s not a real person, not one like them, anyway, and that there’s no one for someone who isn’t really human like that.

 

He shakes his head. “No, I mean – how did _you_ know. I’m not talking about it generally. You can find different stories everywhere.”

 

Bea hums. “Well,” he says, “Your father and – we’ve known each other for a long time. We went to school together. An _S_ could mean anything, so it was nothing I actively thought about. I think – it’s often triggered by very strong feelings, so I think it was in relation to a fight we had, actually. It was silly, not at all something to fight about, but we did. I was about to leave, and your father – he managed to grab onto my wrist, to stop me from going.”

 

“And then you knew,” says Prompto, finishing the story off.

 

“And then I knew,” says Bea, “Like a stroke of lightning. Cliché, I know.”

 

Prompto snorts. “Yeah, such a _cliché_ , mom. Terrible.”

 

Bea tilts her head. “You’ve never asked before,” she says.

 

Prompto shrugs, “Eh, I dunno. Never thought about it before, I guess.”

 

“But you’re thinking about it now?”

 

“Ugh, mom, nothing like that…” Prompto mutters, and looks skywards. He feels his face starting to redden, the splotch of freckles on his nose probably starting to stand out like they do. “Can’t I just – wonder?”

 

Bea tilts her head. Her smile has withdrawn into something small, a little secretive. “Of course you can,” she says. Prompto almost expects that sentence to turn into something else – and when it doesn’t, he’s surprised.

 

*

 

When Noct turns eighteen, he sneaks Prompto into a club. Or, sneaks, is the exciting version of events. Really, he’d just shown up at the door, Prompto in tow, and the bouncer had barely looked twice at Prompto, once he’d taken Noct’s ID. “Your Highness – “ he says, respectful of turning his voice down, murmuring his welcomes. Noct takes it in stride, nods his thanks, and drags Prompto through the entrance without further ado.

 

Noct wants to pay the wardrobe fee, despite the hesitant refusals of the staff. “Just – treat me like I’m anyone,” he says. The girl’s eyes are wide, and she almost stammers out a no. Prompto gently sidles Noct to the left, and pulls up his cardholder.

 

“I’m not royalty, I can pay,” he grins, and pulls up the thin wad of cash he’d taken out before he’d met Noct on the subway.

 

She hesitates even then, but Prompto just hands her the cash, along with their jackets, and waves a quick retreat. “Keep the change!” he calls over his shoulder, and pushes Noct ahead of himself, deeper into the slithering maze of the club’s corridors.

 

It’s warm, and the heady air slides down his neck, down his spine. He’s not by any standards stuffily dressed, but once they enter the room – sees girls in strapless tops that end just above their belly button, and guys who’re sporting gym tanks, they’re so thin and see-through, he feels like coming here in even a tee is being overdressed. Some of the clubgoers don’t even have _tops_ on. They bypass a couple, where the guy’s shirtless, sweat pearling on his collar, and a girl, who’s in only an ornate, lacy bra.

 

“And you’re wearing a shirt,” says Prompto loudly, pointedly, and tugs at Noct’s elbow teasingly.

 

Noct rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for having been taught how to dress to the occasion,” he says.

 

“Sure, Your Legal Highness,” replies Prompto, and starts elbowing his way forth towards the crowded bar.

 

He isn’t strapped for cash, but he’s not got a whole lot either. Luckily, the place is actually pretty cheap. He orders two beers and two shots – having studied the coming of age-rituals of their peers. The bartender holds up her index and middle finger, mouths “Two?” and points to an unlabeled bottle behind her. Prompto squints at the flask. He thinks, despite the dim, dark strobes being the only source of light, that it’s amber.

 

 _What the hell_ , he thinks. He knows it’s all bound to be nasty anyway, regardless of what he chooses. He nods, and hands her his LucEx.

 

Noct looks wary of the bottles beneath Prompto’s arm, and moreso of the two tiny glasses, sloshing with liquid, that he’s holding nimbly before himself. He accepts, regardless, but stands there a little awkwardly, the shot raised to collar-height, and the beer dangling between his fingers at his waist.

 

Prompto looks him over – his best friend, dressed in dark denim and a pressed, dark shirt, his hair dampening with the heat, his eyes black in the murky light. He’s always been a little bit infatuated with Noct, he thinks, so it’s not a revelation he’s having. He’s just – being.

 

He clinks their shot glasses together. “Happy birthday, bud,” says Prompto, and swallows his liquor down in one mouthful.

 

It burns on the way down, sliding warmly and sticking down his throat, but he manages not to cough. Noct makes a face, but nonetheless swallows without comment. He licks his lips, and takes a quick swig of his beer immediately after. Prompto mirrors him, thinking that it’s probably a good idea.

 

They spend the night testing their way hesitantly dancing, laughing, and trying again. Noct’s got surprisingly good moves, his hips fluid and easy, and Prompto suspects it’s because he’s training so much combat training with Gladio. Prompto’s a little stiffer, but it comes to him, the more he drinks. Four beers and two shots of cheap Cleigne whiskey later and he feels like he might undulate himself loose from his own spine, _that’s_ how smooth he is. Noct looks at him, and then throws his head back to laugh, the sound partially drowning in the heavy, reverberating bass. All Prompto sees is his slick, pale column of throat, openly and vulnerably displayed.

 

The music’s – weird. Sometimes the heavy bass is shot through with vocals, and it turns easy to hum to. Otherwise it’s a reverberating, bouncy beat that slows and picks up, loops and repeats and switches. Prompto’s more for lyrics-driven music, not just the beat, but Noct seems to immerse himself in it, lose himself, his lashes, thick and black, shuttering. Prompto decides that he accepts that there is a place, and a time, for techno tunes.

 

A little after 3:30, Noct’s chugging his third rum and coke, and he’s undone the top three buttons on his shirt. In the bad light, Prompto can’t see much, so it doesn’t really matter that Noct’s also pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. What he’s hiding beneath – the tiny script, the snaking of scarring from that accident he had when he was a kid – isn’t really visible. The strobes are long and swooping, and they hit Noct’s face, if they hit him at all.

 

Prompto catches a few girls glancing their way, but he doesn’t think they recognize them – at least, they’re not whispering, staring in that wide eyed, ill-concealed gleeful way that the girls at school do. These are eyeing him and Noct languidly, and when one – brunette, swipe of smoky eye makeup, catches his eye, she smiles, pearly white teeth and glossy lips.

 

Prompto thinks, yeah, she’s gorgeous, way out of his league, and yeah, he could fall a little bit in love with how she’s looking at him. But there’s also – Noct. Noct, who’s currently got his eyes only on Prompto, who’s tilting his drink onto Prompto’s lips, smirking tipsily all the while. Who’s got one hand, unconsciously or not, on Prompto’s hip, his thumb splayed there, stroking idly.

 

He accepts the drink, and downs two sips, before he pushes at Noct’s hand. “You trying to drink me under the table here?”

 

Noct raises an eyebrow. “I _am_ drinking you under the table,” he replies, “Successfully.”

 

Prompto nudges him. “Then so am I,” he says.

 

Noct smiles, wider. “You’re _on_ ,” he says.

 

*

 

They wake up, tangled in Noct’s expensive linen bed sheets, the both of them, and simultaneously groan with the discovering of a really, really bad hangover. Noct kicks out, into Prompto’s shin, and buries his face in his pillow. “By the Six,” he mutters, “What did we _do_?”

 

Prompto grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. There’s a Shieldshears clipping its claws on the insides of Prompto’s temples, and a Behemoth wreaking havoc in his frontal lobe. “I’m pretty sure you ran the bar out of rum,” he replies, weakly at the sudden onslaught of memories. “…You definitely bought like, two bottles of the stuff, for _us_ to split.”

 

“Nuh uh,” says Noct, “This all started with the shots _you_ _bought_.”

 

“They were cheap,” argues Prompto. He groans, and gingerly rolls over on his side.

 

“That’s most likely the _problem_ ,” replies Noct, and hits out, blindly, with one hand, somehow managing to smack Prompto square in the shoulder.

 

Prompto squints out in the room. It’s relatively dark, but a spill of light comes through the door, which stands ajar with scattered boots and discarded pants. He manages to sit up, whimpering with the pounding on the insides of his skull. He’s shirtless, and jeansless – the only article of clothing he retains, apart from his boxers, and his socks, weirdly, is his wristband. There’d been two pairs of trousers, from what he spotted, in the doorway –

 

He carefully turns his head.

 

Noct is still burrowed partially beneath the blanket, face down, into his pillow. From the slice of daylight, the upper of his back is illuminated, smooth, muscles dipping into the concave of his spine. His hair is partially swept to one side of his neck, revealing the knobbly path of his spine. Prompto’s stomach clenches, almost painfully.

 

“Uh, Noct,” he says. He clears his throat, suddenly parched and dry.

 

Noct murmurs something in response, garbled and incoherent when muffled. He turns his head to one side, fringe slicked to his face, only his mouth and nose visible. “Yeah?”

 

“Why – uh, why’re we here?” asks Prompto, stuttering a little.

 

Noct seems to consider it for a while. “Whaddya mean,” he says. He blows on his fringe.

 

“I mean,” says Prompto, and gestures a little around the room, “In your bed.”

 

“…Oh, that.” Noct sits up, slowly, painstakingly. He scratches on the side of his chin, until the pale skin turns an angry red. He swipes at his hair, until Prompto can stare him in the eye – dark, dark blue, awake and considering. He purses his lips, and tilts his head a little haplessly about. “Why?”

 

 _Because I need you to say that it doesn’t mean anything, for it to not mean anything_. Prompto swallows again. He diverts his gaze. “Nah,” he mutters, “Nothing much.”

 

*

 

Noct’s told him about the time a lady sacrificed her life to protect him, and about how it feels to feel the disconnect when a Marilith’s jagged sword rip through the back of your abdomen, and split the tissue, and muscle, down your arm.

 

It starts out stupid; Prompto has a thin, jagged line running up his left calf. He wears shorts, on a particularly sweltering day, and Noct peers interested at it. “Ouch,” he says.

 

Prompto glances down his leg. “What, that?” he says, nodding towards the scar. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I was – four? Climbed the roof and fell off. Typical kid thing.”

 

Noct’s in a slub cotton tee, thin but still damp with the weather. He throws his arms above his head, where he’s stretched out across the patch of grass they’re lounging on, a bit secluded in the royal gardens. “Yeah, no, that wasn’t allowed,” he snorts, “Not that I could’ve climbed the roof, but other stuff, like trees, or rocks? Dad would’ve sooner put me to death himself.”

 

Prompto raises an eyebrow. “Dude,” he says.

 

“I’m serious,” says Noct, “Though – guess he had his reasons.”

 

Prompto looks up at him, situated just below Noct’s waist, to his right. Noct’s absently tugging on his gauntlet, working the leather between his index finger and thumb. “You mean,” says Prompto, trying to be delicate, “After what happened – with the stuff on your arm?”

 

Noct hums. His voice doesn’t betray any emotion. “We were attacked by a Marilith. Took out both the cars. I don’t – it’s a bit blurry. But I remember my caretaker pushing me out the door, screaming at me to get away. We – sprint a few yards, stumbling away from the cars. They’re on fire. I remember – it’s hissing, or moaning, or something in between. And the guards, the drivers – we were the only ones who got away from the cars.” Noct pauses, but when Prompto looks at him again, he’s more reminiscent than sad. “I run another few yards. My caretaker, she’s – just behind me. It’s dark, so I think, maybe that’s why I stumble. Or I’m scared. Both. And the daemon, it’s behind us. But not far. It’s – “

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” murmurs Prompto. He’s shuddering with the thought, stomach roiling with the tale. “Really, Noct. Don’t – don’t say anything.”

 

Noct shakes his head. “No, it’s – it was a long time ago. And, anyway, I wear this stupid thing – “ he indicates the gauntlet, “’Cause it hides the scarring. I’m not ashamed, or anything. But it’s not pretty. And I don’t want the press to dig into _her_ death. Her family – they should be left alone.”

 

Noct sits up. He carefully unlaces the gauntlet, and tugs it off. His shirt is hitched up to his shoulders, and Prompto, in any other situation, he doesn’t care which – he would’ve felt like he’s swallowed the entirety of Leide’s desert landscape, at the sight. Now though – now he only turns, to see the rope of a scar that snakes around Noct’s right side, up towards his spine. “I think the sword – went through her. To get at me. She was – it would’ve taken my entire side out. I would’ve been dead the second I hit the ground. Probably. Nobody would tell me, but I just sort of knew that. She’d saved me. Really.”

 

Prompto – reaches out tentatively, slowly, and puts his palm on where the scar crosses the place where Noct’s kidney is. He’s clammy with heat, and Noct’s skin is slightly slick.

 

Something sparks off Prompto’s palm. Mostly, he chalks it up to his body betraying the momentum, and himself, by acting up due to being in some sort of skin-to-skin contact with Noct that _isn’t_ slapping each other on the back, or high-fiving after a joint-takedown of a particularly hard boss, or any other miscellaneous, friendly situation.

 

This is – this is different.

 

*

 

“C’mon, twiggy, at least come at me like you mean it.”

 

Prompto – can’t be mad at Gladio a) because he’s doing his job, and b) because he’s too terrified of Noct’s Shield for him to actually be able to ballpark with his feelings. But he’s trembling with exhaustion, sweat coming off of him in heady rivulets, and he’s panting with effort. The wooden sword he’s handling is scraping in the ground, ricocheting off the training room walls.

 

“ _Gladio_ ,” says Noct, from somewhere in Prompto’s vicinity, though he can’t immediately gauge exactly where. “Play nice.”

 

Gladio snorts. He hefts his own, broad sword to lay flat against his one shoulder. “Don’t mother him, _Noct_. He can take care of himself.”

 

Prompto sees Noct distinguish himself from the dark walls, and saunter over. The sweatpants he’s wearing are slung low on his hips, and he’s wearing a tee. His semi-usual gauntlet is secured over his right wrist, and he’s holding the short hilt of a practice dagger. “I know he can.”

 

He nods encouraging in Prompto’s direction. “Keep it up, man,” he says.

 

Prompto’s too exhausted to needle him about anything, so he only nods in return, and gulps a few sorely needed breaths in the width of his temporary break.

 

Gladio grunts. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, sighing. He turns back to Prompto. Suddenly, he’s smirking again. “Ready for round two?”

 

The problem with sparring with Gladio is that he knows exactly how to deplete Prompto’s energy, make him sluggish and tired. When he is, exhaustion straining in his thighs, Gladio moves in to dole out the heavy hits. The hits that Prompto has to parry two handedly, and push off with one knee almost floored. Prompto starts off dodging Gladio, moving around him to try and find an opening at the vulnerable of his back, or somewhere unguarded on his side. He sneaks up and in to a known blind spot, but Gladio parries, calmly, when he slashes upwards with his sword. The Shield makes it look like a right chore, like it’s boring, it’s so easy. And while he’s not exactly fast on his feet, he’s so intimately used to the art of fighting that it doesn’t really matter, to Prompto’s novice footwork and beginner’s sword handling, that he’s about two times quicker than Gladio is. Each time he thinks he’s got an opening, Gladio closes it with all the enthusiasm of a pre-school teacher gathering thirty hopped up kids up for nap hour.

 

Prompto only spaces out for the breadth of a second –

 

But that’s all Gladio needs. Of course. He moves in close to Prompto, wedges a foot in between Prompto’s, and swipes his left leg out from beneath him. Prompto crashes to the floor unceremoniously, choking off on a surprised shout. He drops his sword, and sees Gladio kick it away. The Shield raises an eyebrow, and points the tip of his own down to scrape at Prompto’s sternum. “Yield?” he asks.

 

Prompto gasps for air. “Yield,” he agrees.

 

Afterwards, when Gladio’s made a select few jabs about Prompto’s statue, and bad stance, but complimented him on his reaction time, and gathered up the weapons they’ve practiced with, they sit down on one of the plush benches that line the arena. Prompto wipes his face and throat down with a towel. His breathing’s somewhat returned to normal.

 

“Hey, Prompto,” says Gladio. He looks sideways to him, “You’re gettin’ pretty good.”

 

Prompto stares at him for a second. “I – “ he says, “Really? You think so?”

 

Gladio snorts. “Alright, you don’t have to look _that_ shocked. But yeah. Keep it up and you might even give Noct a run for his money, some day.” He throws an expectant glance Noct’s way.

 

Noct snorts. He’s stretching, both legs straight before him, and he’s half lying on his thighs, loose and limb beyond Prompto’s wildest personal expectations. “Or knock your ego down a few notches,” he murmurs.

 

Gladio taps himself on the chest. “Ain’t nothing here that’s in need of being knocked down. Ego’s as it should be.”

 

“Whatever,” says Noct. He straightens out again.

 

“Alright,” says Gladio, “Give ‘em up.” He turns towards Prompto, his closest hand raised in expectancy. Prompto smiles, a little crookedly, still somewhat taken aback whenever Noct’s Shield displays a rare-ish bout of genuine camaraderie. He slaps their palms together.

 

He sees it more as something that disturbs the eye, than anything he’s actively searching out.

 

Gladio slips from the movement into a series of stretch movements himself, the first for his neck and back. When he raises his arms above his head, Prompto notices that, embedded within the broad strokes of his tattoo, is a small, ornate _I_. It’s a little displaced, but still not actively tattooed over; the smallish letter is starch against the light shadowing on one of the wings.

 

Gladio, aware of the smallest minutia of change in one’s behavior, glances Prompto’s way. Prompto startles away, like he’s just waking from daytime slumber. He flushes, and attempts to clumsily mirror whatever it is that Gladio’s doing – triceps stretching, or something. It’s not like he has the triceps to show for it, anyway.

 

“That’s about as unsubtly curious as you’re gonna get,” says Gladio, but he doesn’t sound piqued by it.

 

“Uh,” says Prompto, a little out his depth. “I mean, sorry – didn’t mean to stare.”

 

Gladio shrugs. He pops his neck. “Don’t worry. ‘S not like it’s a secret.” His thumb skitters over the letter, almost absently. “Nothin’ big to it. Everybody has one.”

 

Prompto turns away, properly. He feigns going into a stretch that takes him down onto the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Sure.”

 

He actively doesn’t look up at either Gladio, or Noct – who’s stayed precariously silent for the entire exchange.

 

*

 

Prompto gets himself a new DSLR for his birthday, a little help along the way from his parents. He strokes the camera house almost reverently, and the first thing he does, is pluck it apart, and flip open the instructions manual.

 

He likes to think that he’s a decent photographer, who captures those rare moments you’re unable to remember. The snapshots you’d like to remember, if you could – but then you can’t, because they’re so fleeting, so interchangeable and immersed in the larger picture of what you’re doing. And that he’s varied: Prompto snaps shots of whatever catches his eye, after all.

 

He scrolls the wheel gently through his latest few weeks of shots, though, and sees a predominant motif.

 

Noct.

 

Noct with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, jaw loose and brow drawn in focus. Noct on the eastern boardwalk, a needle of orange light on the horizon, the squall of waves a blur on the unfocused background. Noct with his head buried in his Microeconomics books. Noct chewing on his lower lip, both hands preoccupied with the video game controller. Noct with his sleeves pushed up past the elbow, his tie hanging loose from around his throat, gaze astray out the window on his left.

 

Prompto’s gaze sticks on the last one. He flips back and forth between two identical shots, of the exact same setting, the only difference in Noct’s poise.

 

His soul mark is a blur of a carving on the inner of his exposed, right wrist. It itches on Prompto, though he knows it’s stupid. It’s _really_ stupid.

 

He zooms in on the spot.

 

It doesn’t give him much. He still saves the picture.

 

*

 

Prompto’s lounging around the corner at Noct’s job, catching some downtime having gotten off his own shift, drinking in the final rays of the setting sun. He’s tired; first day of sale is always particularly hectic. Not a lot of customers who know what they want, so he’s had to run around a lot, talked his voice scratchy to sell. He feels good, though.

 

Noct clocks out at ten, when the sun’s well sunk, and Prompto’s slung his jacket on. He peers out the front entrance, sees Prompto, and something breaks on his face; it makes Prompto’s heart flop.

 

“Heya,” says Noct, and wanders over.

 

“Hi, Your Greasiness,” says Prompto, and smirks.

 

Noct snorts. He grimaces, and tugs a little on his sleeve. “Yeah, I’m dying to hit the shower. Had to fill in for one of the cooks. Turns out I do know how to deep fry potatoes. Who knew.”

 

“Dude,” says Prompto, and sniffs the air exaggeratedly, “I think the whole block knows. But good for you. Iggy’s not gonna be very impressed.”

 

“Tell me about it,” says Noct. He motions forward, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’re coming, right?”

 

“Nah, I just really like the burgers in this joint, wanted to stick around till midnight to get my fill.”

 

Noct rolls his eyes, “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

 

There’s a violinist in the subway, whose strokes echo loudly off the walls. Noct drops a few coins of change in his battered leather case, and the musician tips his hat in return, plays a few quick tones in gratitude.

 

They jog the last bit, through the turnstiles and down a tall flight of stairs to make their train. The doors slide open just as they round the final corner, and they’re forced to sprint the platform down to make it. Once safely on, Noct slumps down into the closest seat with a groan, while Prompto stands opposed to him.

 

They cross twice before they get on the Citadel Line and wait out the two stations that go between Plaza Cristal and Oerba Square; Noct’s workplace is kind of awkwardly situated, in relation to his apartment.

 

There’s an itch in Prompto that he’s both unable to locate, and scratch, that’s been weighing on his mind all day. He thinks of it whenever he’s got a second to spare, and he can’t figure out what it is. He thinks about it when they cross over from the main road, and pass the intersection that leads into the upscale neighborhood. He thinks about it when Noct greets his doorman, and Prompto goes along purely on routine. When the elevator doors slide shut behind them. When Noct twists his key in the lock, and lets Prompto into the dark apartment.

 

“Gonna go grab that shower, do – whatever,” Noct pauses, and tilts his head a little. Then he shakes it, “Like I have to tell you to do something in here.”

 

Prompto huffs a laugh. The itch intensifies. “Not really, huh,” he says.

 

The noise of the shower is kind of soothing, when he actively thinks about it. Prompto kicks off his trainers, but is careful to place them neatly in line with the wardrobes, and gingerly places his backpack next to the kitchen counter. He slides up his phone, and starts thumbing through his social media channels whilst he bows down into the couch. The cadence of the water hitting the bathroom floor tiling changes methodically, and it keeps him company.

 

But the itch – it doesn’t recede. It’s from a place where he can’t reach at all: somewhere deep, and dark, in a cavernous space within him. It stems from that place where Prompto, all his life, has suspected there’s a certain light within anyone else. Within people.

 

He straps off his wristband without really meaning to. His phone slides from his palm, drops to nestle in his lap. There, on his etched wrist, is the reason that there is no light coming from within. That instead, he’s got an incurable itch to scratch. The knowledge that something’s amiss, in there.

 

He traces the many, tiny lines of the barcode, slight raised against the planes of his skin. The tiny inscription, his designation and numeral. Yeah, he thinks, this is where the itch originates. This is where it’s coming from, really – not from some unknown spot in his chest. It starts, and ends, here.

 

“… Prom?”

 

Prompto jumps. His breath lodges in his chest, and he realizes, in a beat of panic, that he’s out of his wristband, that someone’s trekked wet footprints out of the bathroom – that Noct is on the opposite side of the table, rivulets of water down his chest and eyes on Prompto –

 

Their eyes meet. Prompto feels run through by a fork of lightning. “I – “ he says, odd and off kilter, and can’t make himself move.

 

“I was just…” says Noct slowly, trailing off without sounding particularly like he means to. His gaze is transfixed on Prompto’s exposed wrist. “I, uh… You’ve – “

 

“It’s not like that,” says Prompto, cutting into whatever it is Noct’s about to say, because he knows – he _knows_ , what Noct’s about to say. He knows, panic undulating in his chest and reaching out to snake around his throat, “It’s just a – it’s not _that_.“

 

Noct is the Crown Prince of Lucis. A nation at war. Of _course_ he’d know. Prompto’s so, so careless, and he feels like he’s fighting for air, kicking water, beneath the surface. He’s drowning –

 

Noct stares at him. He slowly raises his gaze, until he’s looking Prompto in the eye. He averts it just as quick. “Oh,” he says. It’s shot through and a little hollow. “I just – it really, uh. It really looks like it. Like mine. But I guess – “

 

Prompto blinks. “Like yours,” he echoes, dumbly. Somewhere, there is a snag in his attention. A rupture. He’s not following.

 

Noct holds, wordlessly, out his wrist. In the warm light of the overhead lamp, Prompto sees it clearly: a constricted _P_ in black stands starch out against the pale of his skin. An inky contrast to the snaking of his faded, white rope of scar that curls around the breadth of his arm and disappears.

 

Prompto – doesn’t understand. He slowly looks down on his wrist. To the quick fire, thin bars of the tattoo. NH-01987. Then he looks up again. At Noct’s wrist, easing up and down with his barely audible breathing. To the clear as day script. The small, but black, letter.

 

Which mirrors Prompto's stamped, characterless script down to the dot. The _N_ , which could be a little larger than its following letter.

 

“I don’t – “ says Prompto. He falls silent again.

 

“I thought I was imagining things,” says Noct. His voice is – almost breathy. A little reverent. Prompto continues to stare at his arm. If he’s not looking up, then maybe the spell won’t be broken. Maybe, whatever Noct’s imagining, won’t turn out to be as wrong as Prompto knows it is. “It’s not that important. Or, I didn’t think so. You can be in love with someone without being their soul mate, but – “

 

“You – “ begins Prompto. He’s shaking. Adrenaline, and panic, and realization, the wrongness of the turns of this conversation, “This isn’t – I don’t have one. A letter. Or a soul mate. How could you – ?” He slowly, slowly, like sloughing through a whorl of sinking sand, looks up at Noct. “You’re the _Prince_. We’re not – “

 

Noct’s brow draws into a frown. “What does that have to do with anything,” he says.

 

“You’re – it doesn’t matter, you don’t understand.” Prompto breathes, shuddering, “I _can’t_ have a soul mate. I’m not – “

 

“You’re not – what?”

 

Prompto slumps down into the couch. Something is eating on his stomach, he’s so cold with fear and simultaneously out of breath with the realization that this – this is the end. He shakes his head. “Noct,” he murmurs, energy going out of him like he’s been punched with it, “I’m not like that. I’m not – a person.”

 

He’s closed his eyes, he realizes, once he feels how the leather of the couch gives way, creaking, to another drop of weight to his left. Noct’s voice, disembodied, comes through, “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And the stupidest, if you’re not just yanking my chain here. Which I’m kind of really hoping for.”

 

Prompto doesn’t know how else to explain it, so he holds out his wrist. “You probably know what it is,” he says.

 

Noct grasps his forearm gently, and despite himself, Prompto shudders.

 

Then he smooths a finger over the tattoo.

 

And something whites out.

 

He thinks, briefly, to a sun warm evening sitting across his mom on the patio. “And then I knew,” said Bea.

 

Prompto opens his eyes, and looks at Noct. Noct – who doesn’t particularly look any different. His hair is hanging limply into his face, and water still tracks down his jaw, but he’s staring at Prompto like he’s something to treasure. Something that he’s afraid of losing, at a moment’s notice – “I’m not wrong,” says Noct, like he’s never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

 

Prompto glances down on his own wrist again, still splayed upwards. “It doesn’t make sense,” he mutters, “It’s not – this is a stamp. I’m not – like you.”

 

“Prompto,” says Noct, and looks up at him, “I’ve never seen it up close, but I – I can guess. And you know what? It doesn’t change anything. It’s just – something horrible that they told you. _This_ ,” he strokes his thumb down over the letter again. Prompto’s breath hitches, “This is real. You’re – _real_.”

 

Prompto knows he’s real – as in a realized, living thing. Made of climbs of bones and heaps of muscle and tissue and of liters of blood. But he isn’t just a coincidental, free person; he’s manufactured. Constructed with reason. Soul mates – that’s not for him. _Noct_ isn’t ever for him.

 

He shakes his head again. Something is tearing its teeth into his gut. He pulls gently on his wrist, attempts to dislodge Noct from himself. “I can’t be,” he says. “You can’t believe that.”

 

“Why can’t I?” says Noct. His grip remains, not tight, but not loosening. He uses his free hand to swipe his hair out of his eyes, which are dark, intent, and Prompto could lose himself in them, if he allowed himself. “Prom, I – if you don’t _want_ this, that’s your call. I’m not gonna – but this – “ he indicates the etchings on Prompto’s wrist, “This isn’t supposed to stop you from wanting anything. I don’t care about it. Okay? I – I care about _you_. Not about, some tattoo, that doesn’t make you anything different anyway. If it did, then – ”

 

“Then I wouldn’t be sitting here,” concludes Prompto.

 

Noct minutely tilts his head. “No,” he disagrees, “Then – if you were still you, I wouldn’t care. Anyway.”

 

Prompto – slowly slumps back into himself, further into the soft cushions of the couch. A bit of the fight is seeping from him, deflating like air from a balloon’s puncture wound. He stares up at Noct, who’s holding himself tensely, like he’s ready for a fight, or to stop himself from jarring loose. His jaw is hard. Prompto doesn’t understand why he’s fighting, not now, but somewhere inside of him, where there’s an empty itch –

 

Something stirs. Something maybe-light.

 

“Prom,” says Noct, “You’re my best friend, first. But I – just, if this soul mate business isn’t your thing, that’s fine. I’d like to, if you want to – do this without that.”

 

“I – “ says Prompto. His throat is sticking together like fly paper. His heart is going to beat out of his chest, and wrists, and neck. “This isn’t a joke, or anything?” his words are sickly, and weak, like they’re worming their way out of his mouth but dying to beat a hasty, injured retreat.

 

Noct tipping forward and pushing their mouths together is – warm, and dry at first. Noct’s bottom lip is chapped, and for a moment they’re just sitting there. Something like electrical currents are running through Prompto, making him twitch, makes him lose his breath. He acts on instinct, and pitches forward with his entire upper body, hands coming up to clutch at Noct’s shoulder, and on the back of his neck. Noct makes a surprised noise deep in his throat. His already occupied hand tightens on Prompto’s wrist, the other settles on his side. Noct hums, and then tentatively licks at Prompto’s bottom lip. Prompto opens his mouth, and Noct licks his way inside, feeling way more experienced than Prompto would’ve given him credit for. He just sort of – whites out, allows Noct to lead, does what he does.

 

When they break apart, Prompto’s fingers remain tangled in Noct’s hair, wet and slick. Noct leans his forehead into Prompto’s, and breathes, quietly, in the minimum space that serrates down between them.

 

“Do you want to do this?” murmurs Noct.

 

Prompto – can’t find a reason not to. He hasn’t had one since they first became friends. Or maybe even from before that. Not even himself, and all of what that entails, is good enough a reason to not just nod, and kiss Noct again, just to feel something spark down his spine, divinely blessed or not.

 

*

 


End file.
